


the kiss i would have spent on you

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: 5 Times, Amnesia, Confessions, Extra Treat, M/M, Meeting an Alternate Self, Misunderstandings, Tied together, Time Loop, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: GQ has a thing for Croc. It's kind of inconvenient. Except Croc might have a thing for him back—maybe. If only it weren't so fucking hard to be sure.Or: five times GQ and Croc were possibly kind of having a ~moment and got interrupted (including by themselves), plus the time they finally managed to get their shit together.





	the kiss i would have spent on you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amaronith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaronith/gifts).



> This is three-quarters an attempt to repay an IOU, amaronith, but I promise there's an argument that gets (sort of) solved with kissing, too. ♥ I hope you like it, and that you've enjoyed this DCEU Ex!
> 
> Title from the poem "[The Kiss](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57451/the-kiss-56d23afcdf8c4)" by Kurt Brown.

 

 

**one.**

GQ comes around slowly, grudgingly. If it were up to him, he wouldn't, because even well before he can get his eyes open, even when the blackness is soft and surrounding and feels impenetrable, there's a faint throbbing ache in his head, his jaw. He doesn't particularly want it to get closer. He'd rather stay down here, where it's far away.

But he can't, and soon enough he's blinking his eyes open, squinting reflexively against the queasy pain rippling in his temples, seeping through the bone to one side of his chin.

Jesus, that hurts.

He wants to move, just a little—just to put a hand over his eyes, maybe feel around for a split in his lip, blood on his face. He tries to: shifts his weight a little, preparatory, and he's—is he sitting up? He thinks so, though every surface he can see in front of him is the same dank gray.

Or, no, wait. He's standing. Or he should be. Would be, if his feet were under him. He peers down at them and tries to line them up better, and okay, that's an improvement. And his arms—his hands are up above him. Should be easy as falling off a log, to get them down here where they'd be useful.

Except his arms won't work. Or, well, they kind of will, it's not like his muscles aren't responding; but his hands aren't moving, they're—they're stuck.

His brain grinds, sluggish and full of murk, and after a second something floats to the top. Tied. Right. He's probably tied up.

He makes a weak hoarse noise of complaint and turns his head, closing his eyes again. Funny, that his face hurts so much more than his arms. If he's been hanging here like this for even a few minutes, his shoulders ought to be fucking killing him—

But they aren't. They—they still aren't. He watched himself get his feet where they're supposed to go, because they weren't holding him up before, and they still mostly aren't now.

He blinks down at himself, bewildered; and then there's a weird soft sound, and GQ only realizes how much tension there was straining through his uniform, his suit, right when it eases off. That's what was holding most of his weight, he was—

"Okay?"

Croc.

GQ tips his head back, and yeah, okay, he should have noticed before: his hands aren't alone up there. The metal cable looped around his wrists has been passed over some kind of beam or strut or some shit, and on the other side it's wrapped around two huge familiarly scaly hands. And—and now that he's paying attention, the collar of his dive suit feels weird against the back of his neck, pocked and torn instead of smooth.

Because Croc hadn't had hands free to hold him up. Just teeth.

"Yeah," GQ says, belated. "Yeah, I'm—I'm okay."

And he's pretty sure it's true, especially given how his arms would be a lot more fucked up than they are if it hadn't been for Croc. Everything's starting to filter back to him: the mission, the assault, the parts that went right and the parts that went wrong, and a few scattered shards of something that might be the blow that had put GQ down for the count, though he can't quite assemble them into a memory. The room, too, feels a lot more real than it had a minute ago: the bare concrete walls, the damp sticky air, the crappy strip of lights over them humming unevenly.

And Croc, behind him. Facing him, must be, or he couldn't have gotten his teeth in GQ's collar like that, and GQ's going to have to bake a cake for whoever in R&D came up with a material for this dive suit that Croc's teeth wouldn't just tear to pieces. Now that he's paying attention, GQ can even kind of feel the pattern of Croc's scales against his back. His back, where Croc's chest is pressed up against him; Croc's thighs against the backs of his. Croc's knees, because Croc's taller than he is and when they're both standing, they don't fit behind GQ's own knees the way they might if—

GQ shuts his eyes and swallows. Jesus, focus. Not the time.

"You?"

"Yep," Croc says.

GQ twists a little, ignoring the way it makes his head pound, trying to catch Croc's eye through the gap over his own shoulder—just to be sure. Because Croc's standards for this shit aren't always where GQ expects them to be, and _something_ must have happened to him if he'd ended up in here tied to GQ.

Croc stares back at him, unblinking, and if he looks anything it's—it's satisfied, lizard-smug.

Jesus, they are really fucking close to each other.

"You sure?" GQ says.

"Tried to take you away from me," Croc rumbles, low. "Didn't let 'em."

GQ bites his lip, feeling his ears get hot. Croc says shit like that sometimes, it's—GQ mostly doesn't let it throw him, doesn't make it weird.

But usually they're not chained up together, not enough room between them to draw a breath. Usually GQ's not standing around with Croc pressed up against him, big damp arms bracketing GQ's; jesus, he makes GQ feel small sometimes, and there's no good reason why GQ should be so goddamn hot for that.

He turns his head too fast, suddenly aware that he's been looking at Croc a little too long, and the throb in his head picks up, pain suddenly brimming high, sloshing over. He feels himself sway a little, the cable making a harsh grating noise overhead as his weight drags on it.

And then, of course, Croc's got him. Croc only has to pull a little to make the cable taut, give GQ a steady point to orient himself by, and he can twist his hands around and catch GQ by the wrist, big long fingers blissfully cool against GQ's racing pulse.

"Easy," he says chidingly, against the curve of GQ's ear. "Dumbass."

GQ laughs, quick huff through his nose, and then gives up and tips his aching head back against Croc's shoulder. At least he feels too shitty for his stupid overenthusiastic dick to make a nuisance out of itself. Small favors. "Sorry," he mumbles, closing his eyes, letting his head roll sideways, forehead to the small smooth scales running up the side of Croc's throat. "Sorry."

"Shut up," Croc says quietly.

GQ just hangs there, breathes slow, and after a minute it's not so bad. He shifts away a little and opens his eyes again, and Croc's—

Croc's looking down at him silently, intent, still so fucking close.

GQ stares up at him and is suddenly conscious all over again of the whole line of Croc's body behind him, and shit, maybe his stupid overenthusiastic dick is going to get in on this after all—

The clang of a door, the sound of booted feet getting closer, is almost a relief. Bad guys showing up to poke holes in them or yell questions or whatever is a boner-killer like nobody's business, at least for GQ, and all things considered, that's probably for the best.

 

 

**two.**

He's in a chair.

He blinks down at himself: his chest, his legs, his arms, the backs of his hands. There are restraints buckled around his wrists, his elbows, his waist, his thighs, and he can feel another pair at his ankles. The weird uniform he's wearing, almost military—and how does he even know that?—except he doesn't recognize it, and it's torn, stained, ragged slices crossing his torso, a couple round holes. Bullet holes, he thinks, and doesn't know why. Underneath them his skin looks fine, whole and unmarked, and for some reason that freaks him right the fuck out.

"Name?"

He looks up.

There's a woman standing off to one side, in front of a bunch of—screens, monitors, keys, all kinds of equipment. She isn't even looking at him; her mouth's flat, lips pressed together, and if he had to guess she's kind of bored, a little tired.

"Name?" she says again.

He doesn't know how to answer.

"You don't remember," she assesses, striking a few keys, and then she glances at him and gives him a brief perfunctory smile. "That's good."

He stares at her. It doesn't _feel_ good. Jesus, he—he doesn't know his name.

"Do you know where you are?"

"No," he says blankly.

"How did you get here?"

"I don't know," he says. "I—I don't know."

Tap tap tap, more keys. "How do you feel?"

Jesus. How the fuck is he supposed to answer that? He swallows once, twice, fingers tightening on the arms of the chair; something in his chest is knotting up tight, breaths coming shorter. He can't remember. He can't remember anything, _anything_.

The woman casts another glance at him, and seems to bite down on a sigh. "Count to ten," she says, rote, "and take a breath, as deep as you can. Do you understand?"

He laughs, and it comes out sharp and ragged, strained. "Are you fucking kidding me, lady? What the hell did you _do_ to me?"

She shakes her head, already turning away, and when she turns back she's got—oh, fucking spectacular, she's got a gigantic fucking hypodermic needle, filled with something pale and cloudy that he decides instantly he doesn't like the look of. "You need to try to stay calm," she says, sounding bored. "If you don't think you can do that, we'll have to begin again—"

"Begin _what_ again?" he says, loud, jerking at the restraints, and then there's a sudden thunderous noise from somewhere beyond the room, a horrible growl, a scream.

He startles helplessly, and for the first time the woman looks just as surprised and wary as he feels—she frowns, moving toward the door.

But she doesn't reach it before it bursts open in her face, slamming into the wall with a crack and rebounding. And—and _something_ comes through it, smashes her backwards through the air; she hits the monitors, a couple pieces of equipment, and crumples to the floor.

He takes the opportunity to twist his arms as far as he can, and manages to almost catch the trailing end of one strap. But fuck, there's just no way he's going to be fast enough, there's too many restraints and the thing, the—dinosaur? Crocodile? What the fuck _is_ that?—is already turning away from the woman, crossing the space left to reach the chair in one sudden rush.

He squeezes his eyes shut, presses himself back into the chair. Like it's going to make any difference, like if he can't see that thing then it won't be able to see him, but he doesn't know what the hell else to do.

"Hey," somebody says, low. "Hey, GQ."

He grits his teeth, clenches his fingers around the arms of the chair tighter, and forces one eye open. Because, yeah, it absolutely is the dinosaur crocodile who's talking, and it's definitely talking to him.

Looking at him, too, steady pale eyes. It reaches for him, slow, except it's only to grab for the first two straps, the ones around his wrists—and then it snaps them.

"GQ," it says again, soft and rumbly, and he swallows and thinks, to hell with it.

"That my name?"

The dinosaur crocodile goes still, and then eases just a little bit closer. "Yeah," it says.

GQ. Okay. "Okay," he says. "And you—you know me?"

"Yeah," it says again, and something about its voice right then, the way it's still staring at GQ, makes GQ shiver a little—even before it's reached out again, curled those huge strong hands around GQ's elbows and ripped another pair of restraints open with a brief effort. Jesus, just watching the muscles in its shoulders bunch is making GQ think all the wrong shit. "They fuck you up?"

And there's something about the way it asks that that GQ really likes. Just how matter-of-fact it is, maybe; how clear. That it wouldn't be a big deal if GQ said _yep, they fucked me up pretty bad_. That it's an option, to be fucked up and say so.

GQ lets his eyes fall shut again. "Yeah," he hears himself tell the dinosaur crocodile. "Yeah, I think maybe they did."

"Okay," says the dinosaur crocodile, and then it leans in close to curl its hands around the big thick strap crossing GQ's waist, and snaps both those buckles apart with a jerk and a shriek of metal.

"So you know me," GQ says, looking up into its face. "I know you?"

"Yeah," it says, and tips its chin up. "Killer Croc, that's me."

And it's like the weirdest possible time for it, but GQ grins a little anyway. The way it—Killer Croc—talks: quick short answers, straightest possible line between two points, no bullshit; he kind of likes it. He's already started to relax despite himself—because it's obvious Killer Croc could have just torn this chair free from where it's bolted to the floor and thrown GQ into the wall, same as he did to that woman, and instead he's busting GQ loose and answering his questions, even if he's using the fewest possible words to do it.

He came to get GQ. He must have. Wherever this is, he doesn't belong here—he wasn't supposed to come in here. But he did, just to get to GQ. Who he knows, who knows him.

"So we're—friends?" GQ tries.

"Partners," Croc says, and fuck, his hands are dropping to GQ's thighs now. GQ swallows hard.

"What kind of partners?"

That makes Croc's eyes come up again to GQ's face, and this close, that's more than enough to make GQ's heart start to pound.

"What kind you thinking?" Croc says, real low, pausing for a second with his palms spread out over the muscles in GQ's thighs, and jesus, jesus, GQ bites his lip and tries to keep from squirming helplessly, pressing up into it, and only sort of succeeds.

Is he usually this pantingly obvious? He has no idea. He doesn't know shit except how Croc's hands on him make him feel. "Do we fuck?" he blurts, cheeks hot.

Croc looks away—and slides his hands along, slow, easing between GQ's thighs and the straps, until he can snap them both with a jerk that makes GQ suck in a breath. "Haven't yet," he murmurs, but the voice he uses to do it makes GQ's whole body shudder, the sound alone gripping GQ by the back of the neck and squeezing tight—

"Clear?"

Fuck, jesus, there's some guy in the doorway—not a dinosaur crocodile, just a guy, but GQ hadn't even heard footsteps. He flinches a little, self-conscious, and presses himself backward into the chair; but Croc doesn't move an inch, still leaning in over GQ with his hands curved around GQ's thighs.

"Clear," Croc says, without even looking over his shoulder. "I got him. Needs Medical. They messed with his head."

"How bad?" the guy says, suddenly looking sharper, professional.

"Couldn't remember me."

"Well, shit," the guy mutters, glancing left and then right down the hallway and hefting the really big gun in his hands. "Downstairs is clear, let's go," and GQ takes that as his cue to shift until Croc draws back a little, and lean down and undo the last two restraints around his ankles himself. Not that he wouldn't be willing to watch Croc sink to his knees and do it for him—but that's maybe not the best use of their time right this second.

 

 

**three.**

It's been Thursday forty-two times in a row when GQ finally starts to lose it a little.

Well, no, okay, it was back in the late teens somewhere that he first felt himself get kind of—itchy with it. Since then, one Thursday or another, it's hit him like a sudden blow: a weird intense panic, the unsolvable claustrophobia of being trapped in this loop of resetting days.

But he's got this. He breathes through it. He waits for it to pass. Compared to all the other shit he's been through, to Moone, to Midway, to everything this whack-ass world has thrown at him—how does this even register? Thursday, over and over, at ARGUS HQ. There isn't even a problem, an assault or a mission or a fight. He doesn't get hurt, he doesn't die. This is far and away one of the least scary things that's ever happened to him.

And if only the stupid knot tied up tight in his chest were paying attention, it would know that and fuck off.

But the forty-second Thursday, he just can't stand it. He's supposed to go to Flag, report this; spatio-temporal anomalies happen, especially when you're fucking around with stuff you don't understand the way ARGUS does, and when they do, you follow procedure. You report it, you get the tests, you answer the customized battery of assessment questions. You perform whatever experiments all the pointy-headed lab guys deem necessary, and you don't go nuts or try to break it or kill yourself unless they ask you to.

For all GQ knows, this is an authorized experiment and he got picked out of a hat, and somebody down there is waiting excitedly for him to show up and report what they think is Iteration #1.

But he can't do it. He can't do all that shit again.

He's learned Thursday pretty thoroughly. He knows where just about everybody in the building spends their day, where they go, what they do—how it changes if GQ interacts with them, which sometimes is a lot and sometimes isn't much at all.

And he knows where everybody _won't_ be, and on the forty-second Thursday, he goes there instead.

Equipment storage on Level 12. Levesque accesses the one on Level 10 right after lunch, double-checking that all her shit's where she left it after Marks hassles her in the mess, and the ones on 2 through 8 are getting inventoried on this particular Thursday. But GQ hasn't seen anybody anywhere near 12, not once.

He goes through the usual routine, marks himself down on the duty roster for a munitions check. And then he heads up to Level 12 and slips in there. He doesn't bother turning on the lights, just lets the door shut behind him with a gentle clunk. He feels his way along one wall of storage units until he gets to a corner, and then he sinks down into it, folded up tight, arms around his knees, and finally feels like he can fucking breathe. It's still Thursday; but if GQ spends it in here instead of doing the same shit he usually does, answering all the same fucking questions and getting jabbed with all the same fucking needles, at least it'll _feel_ like a different day, even just a little. He can go back to the regular old Thursday crap next time around.

It's ridiculous, how good it feels. To sit here unmonitored, not talking to anybody; to get hungry, thirsty, instead of downing the same meticulously-measured carefully-weighed stuff from the lab. (The Thursday where GQ discovered that was so they could also weigh and measure his fluid and solid ... _output_ isn't high on his current personal ranking of Thursdays.) And for a few hours he thinks he's going to get away with it.

But something out there must have changed without him, some new variable—or at least that's what he assumes, when the door suddenly opens.

For a second, he's squinting into the light streaming in from the hallway and feeling almost anxious, caught; like somebody in the labs really did figure it out somehow, knows this is happening to him and that he hasn't come and told them about it, and they're going to write him up for it.

But there's no lab coat. Nothing like it. It's Croc.

"GQ?"

"Yeah," GQ croaks, and he can hear Croc's satisfied little huff of breath.

And then Croc closes the door again behind him—and sure, right, he's got way better night vision than human-normal. He can probably see GQ almost as well like this.

GQ waits, but Croc doesn't say anything. GQ can hear the scuff of those scaly feet against the floor, and then there's a moment of utter silence, a little more scraping—and suddenly a big cool knee, a hip, is pressed up against GQ's.

Quiet again. Croc's still not asking.

Because, GQ thinks slowly, he doesn't much need to know. He was—

He was just looking for GQ, and now he's found him. Because nobody ever touches equipment storage on Level 12, except that's on Thursdays where Croc knows where GQ is. That's the thing that changed: GQ holed himself up in here, and Croc couldn't find him doing munitions checks and came looking for him.

GQ swallows, and tips his head back against the wall, and lets his shoulder brush Croc's arm. "I'm okay. Long day," he says, after another minute in the quiet dark.

"Okay," Croc says, placid.

And jesus, he's going to give the whole game away, but—

"Missed you," he hears himself say.

Because it's true, even if it must sound totally ridiculous to Croc. Croc's known where he is all the other Thursdays, yeah; because somebody must have explained to him about GQ being stuck in the lab, that they were running an anomalous incident evaluation or whatever. Not because they'd seen each other, or talked or anything. And for Croc it's been—GQ strains to cast his mind all the way back to that distant fucking Wednesday. Two days, maybe? Because GQ was running that training exercise with Sharma and her team, that was it. And Croc had been brought up from Belle Reve for the week, and jesus, GQ had been looking forward to seeing him on Thursday.

And he had, that first Thursday, before he'd woken up and it had been Thursday again. An entire fucking month ago and then some.

He squeezes his stinging eyes shut, presses the back of his hand against them; and Croc must see him do it and moves, shifts, bringing one wide cool palm to rest against the bowed nape of GQ's neck.

"Guessing you know that's weird," Croc says slowly, and GQ laughs into his own knees even though it's not really that funny anymore.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, sorry. I just—"

He bites his lip, because jesus, the last thing he wants to do right now is start explaining the whole damn thing again, even if it's just to Croc. He shakes his head and reaches up through the dark instead, finds Croc's jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and traces them with unsteady fingers—

And the thing is, he should have been paying attention to the time. Forty-two loops. He knows how it works, by now. He gets until the mid-afternoon, never more.

It shouldn't be able to surprise him, that one second he's got a hand on Croc's face, staring searchingly through the dark, trying to pick out Croc's eyes, and the next he's waking up alone.

But he still rolls over with his fists clenched and yells, "Oh, fuck _you_ ," into his pillow, even if he's not quite sure who he's talking to.

 

 

**four.**

GQ stares, and stares, and then stares a little more.

He understands the run-down they've been given. Mostly. Not the exact mechanism—something about a doorway, a crack in the world, unexpected strangely-colored light. The usual. That the subject who'd come through had been agitated, had cooperated but struggled to concentrate; that it had been determined that perhaps provisionary contact would help.

But it turns out that hadn't totally prepared him for another GQ getting brought in here. Especially not one that's looking at Croc with such shameless desperation.

The other GQ's not blushing, not embarrassed—but GQ is, enough for the both of them. It's not hard to tell the two of them apart, not really. For starters, the other GQ's uniform is unfamiliar in a handful of ways, and so is his hair. And even past the most superficial cosmetic stuff, it's—the other GQ has scars GQ doesn't recognize, white clawmarks that must have nearly opened his throat when they happened, and something that looks like road rash creeping out from under his hair toward his jaw. There are lines around his eyes, his mouth, that GQ's pretty sure he doesn't have. He looks harder, sharper. He looks fucking exhausted. He's obviously different from GQ in all kinds of ways.

But somehow it still feels like it says something; it still makes GQ feel weird, hot, painfully exposed, to look at his own face with that expression on it, his own eyes fixed so thirstily on Croc.

"Holy shit," the other GQ breathes, and he crosses the holding room in three quick strides and pretty much throws himself at Croc, jesus, GQ can barely even stand to look. "Holy shit. They told me you were—that here you were still—but I couldn't believe it. Holy _shit_ ," he says again, and he's laughing and a little bit crying at the same time, clutching Croc like he couldn't care less how obvious he's being.

Croc doesn't hug him back, exactly; just reaches up to set his hands on the other GQ's upper arms. "Hey, GQ," he says slowly, meeting GQ's eyes across the room over the other GQ's shoulder.

"Hey, man," the other GQ murmurs quietly into Croc's shoulder, turning his face into Croc's chest. "I know you're not the one who did it, but just for the record: don't you _ever_ fucking leave me behind. Ever. You will get caught and you will get vivisected, and after that everything sucks forever. So just don't fucking do it. Okay?"

Croc blinks. "Okay," he says.

And the other GQ laughs again, quick and ragged, and then draws back, catches Croc's face in his hands and stares into it like—like he's drinking it up, miles of desert in every direction and this the only water he's going to get a shot at for a long long time, and he knows it. "You shithead," he says softly. "I can't believe you did that to me."

Croc looks at him silently for a second, and then something happens around his forehead, his eyes, that GQ can't quite parse. "Sorry," he says.

"Yeah, yeah," says the other GQ, aiming for irreverent with enough dedication that it might've worked if his voice hadn't cracked. He swallows hard and shakes his head, and then makes himself move away—and that's the only word for it, that he _makes_ himself, strained with the effort, muscles in his neck all going taut at once.

And he does it, GQ realizes, because he knows the door's about to open, which it does. "Thirty seconds," says the escort waiting for him outside.

"Right, right," the other GQ says. "Okay," but he doesn't look away from Croc, not the whole time he's moving toward the doorway, not even when the guys outside have caught his arms to walk him out.

And then all at once he does, because he's looking at GQ instead.

"Sorry," he says, low. "I know you wish I'd been more careful. The thing is—it doesn't fucking matter anymore. You know? He's not coming back, not ever. I remember what it was like, trying to be careful, and I wish I fucking hadn't. I wish I hadn't wasted a goddamn second of his life on that," and GQ stares into the other GQ's wet eyes—his own, except they aren't, except they sort of are—and can't think of a single thing to say before the other GQ is gone, hustled away.

The holding room is dead silent for a long moment after.

"He didn't look so good," Croc says quietly.

GQ risks a glance: Croc's gazing at the door, closed after the other GQ, like maybe if he does it long enough he'll be able to see through it.

"Of course he didn't," GQ says, absent.

And then suddenly Croc's looking at him, heavy, brow furrowed just a little.

"What?" GQ says. "You heard him. Wherever he came from, you're dead there. You died." He shrugs, sort of helplessly, because Croc's still staring at him—but how is that not explanation enough? "You died, and he should've been there but he wasn't. Of course he looked like shit."

"GQ," Croc says, real low, and the thing is—

The thing is, GQ does try to be careful. But that doesn't mean it works. Croc's got to have some idea by now. Right? He's—he's _got_ to. Even if the other GQ hadn't just given it all the fuck away, GQ's slipped up enough times that he must at least have a guess. It must at least have occurred to him.

And he doesn't look pissed off about it, GQ dares to think, heart pounding. He's staring at GQ steadily and he doesn't seem like he's about to tear GQ's head off for it, and that almost might be scarier than if he did—

"Edwards!"

GQ jerks and turns. The door's open again, it's—it's one of the geeks, with her hands on her hips, giving GQ a pretty impressive raised eyebrow.

"Come on, Edwards," she says, "we need you, too. Have to have a contemporaneous baseline, or half these tests are going to be useless. Chop, chop."

"Sure, Nilsson, no problem," GQ says, a little too fast, and can't quite talk himself into looking Croc in the face again before he hurries out.

 

 

**five.**

"I wish you would leave," GQ says, wincing as he hears the words come out of his mouth. "Except I hope you don't, because I really don't want anybody else in here right now. You're the only one who probably won't give me shit forever if I say something stupid, but you're also the only one I want to say really stupid stuff to," and shit, shit. He shoves two knuckles into his mouth and bites down, and tries not to think about anything.

It won't work for very long. Whatever GQ got hit with back there, whatever had been in the vial of weird shimmering dust that had shattered against his chest, it seems to compel not just honesty but confession—he can't seem to stop talking, and he gets frantic, uncontrollably panicked, if there's nobody around to listen to him.

And if those guys had gotten hold of him, they'd probably have started asking him questions, directing him. But as it is, he's just spilling over: whatever he thinks of, whatever occurs to him, anything he's got on his mind. He can fill his head with shit that doesn't matter for a couple minutes at a time, yeah. But it's like "don't think of a pink elephant"—he can't keep from circling back to everything he never wanted to tell anybody, everything he's hoping he can keep to himself until this fucking stops.

The worst part of the whole thing is that it didn't even have to happen this way. He'd seen something move, taken the quick step and a half to put himself between whatever it was and Croc—and then he'd been covered in it, sneezing, realizing too late it hadn't been anything lethal. And if it had hit Croc, it might not even have _worked_. Sometimes weird magical shit just bounces off Croc instead. Besides, GQ already talks at least five times as much as Croc on a normal day; even if it had worked on Croc, it might've been impossible to tell.

What can there even be that Croc wants to say but doesn't? "I'm hungry"? "You're annoying"? He would've been fine, GQ thinks sourly.

But he's not stuck with it. GQ is. And GQ, god help him, can't stop fucking talking.

Jesus, he ought to be glad he hasn't said anything _really_ fucked up yet, like—

"I think about your fucking thighs all the time," GQ hears himself say, because he quit concentrating for two fucking seconds and his hand took itself out of his mouth, fuck. "Shit, sorry—sorry, man, you should go get Flag or something. You don't need to listen to this."

Croc just eyeballs him for a second and then shrugs. "I got nice thighs," he says, calm.

"Yeah, but you have to know," GQ says helplessly, "that's just the tip of the iceberg. You have to know. It's all of you, your face, your shoulders, your fucking _hands_ —god, sorry, I can't stop. Every time you wrap one of those things around my wrist, my arm, I can't think about jack shit except you holding me down."

Croc stares at him and doesn't say a word.

"How many of your fingers you could fit in my ass," and GQ cringes, gets control of himself long enough to slap a hand over his mouth but can't keep it there, _can't_. "How many you'd need, to get me ready for your dick—oh, jesus, please try to forget I said that—and how you could probably hold me up one-handed, just shove me against a wall and pin me there and f-fuck, fuck, shut _up_ —"

"GQ," Croc says.

And then, impossibly, it gets worse. Because the next thing that makes it out of GQ's mouth isn't any of the really dirty shit, the thoughts he's had about Croc's teeth or ass or what his come might feel like against GQ's skin, every half-formed fantasy he's spun out for himself while guiltily googling for how crocodile dicks even work. He could almost have borne that. Maybe.

But instead he hears himself say, "And your eyes, man. The way you look at me sometimes, there's nothing in the entire goddamn world like it. The rest of it gets me hot or whatever, I think about it when I get off and it's good; but when you watch me like that, like it matters, like there's nothing else you want to look at—jesus, I can hardly stand it."

He grits the last few words out, hoarse and scratchy, already shaking his head—and once it's all said, it's suddenly easier to get a hand over his mouth. For all the good it'll do him now. Shit.

And he doesn't even have time to turn away, create a little distance, before Croc's got him by the arm. Not that he could've gotten far anyhow, considering the size of the isolation room they're in; but having one of those hands wrap around his whole bicep like that, shit, that's not going to help at all—

"GQ," Croc says again, soft and just a little growly, and all at once GQ's coming up against the wall, dimly surprised by the steady cool surface against his back.

He should've kept a lid on it. After that thing with the other GQ, he thought maybe—but they haven't talked about it. Croc hasn't said anything.

But now, for a second, mindless hope is filling up his chest. Because Croc's doing it again, leaning in close, looking at him exactly the way he was just talking about; exactly the way that cracks him open the furthest, reaches right into the heart of him and squeezes.

Except all Croc does is look. Real long, so long GQ stares back silently and swallows once, twice.

And then Croc says, "How long's it last?"

A question—a question GQ knows the answer to, or at least the best guess the lab team had. "Another couple hours, or at least that's the estimate," comes spilling out, and GQ's almost weak with the relief of getting to say a true thing after keeping his fat mouth shut for nearly a whole minute.

Croc looks away. "Got to talk?"

"Yeah," GQ says. "Yeah, I'm—I can't stop. Sorry."

Croc glances at him again, and then, deliberate, careful, lets go of his arm. "Your gun," he says. "How's it go together?"

And half of GQ, the half that's still squirming with all the compulsions that glittery dust put on him, runs with that without hesitation, fucking _thrilled_ to be asked and to fill the answer with all kinds of extraneous but totally true details.

But somewhere underneath that, he's got enough sense left to feel his heart sink. His gun isn't anything Croc needs or wants to know about; it's just—

It's just something GQ can tell the truth about. Something that won't matter, not like the shit GQ just spewed everywhere. And GQ should talk about it and be grateful for it, because even he can't be stupid enough to wish Croc wanted to hear things he'd never been planning to say anyway.

 

 

**and one.**

Things are weird after the truth spell.

GQ'd kind of hoped that it would be like every other time. They've gone through a lot of freaky shit, him and Croc, and most of it hasn't left a mark, or at least nothing they can't handle. Croc's good at—well, at letting things roll off his back like water, almost too good a metaphor.

But for whatever reason, after the truth spell, something lingers. A tension, kind of. Awkwardness in silences that wouldn't have been awkward before. Croc's never been easy to read, not even for GQ; but now sometimes GQ looks at him and just—can't even imagine, can't even guess, Croc's face closed up and shuttered and with a security gate pulled down to boot.

Doesn't make much sense to GQ. Yeah, okay, he'd gotten a little X-rated, but the thing he keeps circling back to is that Croc had to know. Croc can't remember the time loop, sure; but after the other GQ, the way GQ'd moved under Croc's hands even when he couldn't remember who either of them were—he'd _asked Croc if they fucked_ , jesus. It couldn't have been a surprise to Croc, not really.

But things are weird now. He doesn't know why, and he can't figure out how to ask about it either. He's already said pretty much everything, laid it all out there, because he couldn't stop himself. And Croc hadn't taken him up on it, had let go of him and given him an out instead, and so—so okay. GQ'll get over it. Eventually. Maybe. But they can still work together. Right? Unless Croc doesn't want to. Unless this is him saying as much without opening his mouth, the way he likes to do sometimes. Or—or maybe he's just punishing GQ for a little while, making sure GQ gets that this isn't shit Croc is interested in dealing with; or—

Or maybe he could figure out how to ask if he tries, and he's just not doing it because he doesn't want to know the answer.

Anyway, the point is that it's weird, and GQ's not sure what to do about it.

And then Croc gets himself torn up by these automated underwater razor-fin things, and to be honest GQ's almost relieved about it, because at least he's got a good excuse to get up in Croc's face and yell at him a little.

"Seriously, what the fuck were you even thinking? _Were_ you thinking?"

Croc flicks a glance at him. "Yeah," he says.

And then nothing else, because of course he's not going to elaborate if GQ doesn't make him. Figures. "Sure," GQ snaps. "And I don't suppose any of your _thoughts_ were about what a stupid thing you were doing, swimming off ahead like that without me? Jesus, man, you heard what I said."

Croc stares at him.

And fuck, possibly he shouldn't have brought that up. But it's too goddamn late now, isn't it? "You heard what I said," GQ repeats. "The other one of me. Don't fucking do that."

"Why not," Croc growls, and it's not a question, not really, but there's no way GQ's letting it go unanswered anyhow.

"Why _not_? Are you fucking kidding me? You _do not_ leave me behind," and okay, he wanted to get in Croc's face but maybe not like this—he's leaned in, as if there's a chance in hell he can loom over Croc even when Croc's prone on a bed in Medical, and he watches himself grab Croc, close a hand tight around the back of Croc's neck, and thinks: jesus, he is going to pull back a stump in a minute.

"You care?" Croc rumbles, eyes narrowed, and that's so far from what GQ was expecting to hear that it knocks all the anger right out of him, leaves him blinking and bewildered.

"What? Of course I do," GQ says, and feels himself flush—but maybe he's still a little angry after all, because for once the queasy fear isn't quite enough to make him back down. "You know that. You heard what I—all that shit I said when I—you know that."

Croc's downright glowering at him now. "Right," he says flatly. "You said it. You had to."

"Look, if that freaks you out or something," GQ starts, trying to be reasonable about it even though it feels like his heart's turning to cement in his chest—but Croc doesn't let him finish.

"You're hot for me? Fine," Croc says, with half a shrug. "I'm hot. But you wouldn't say it till you had to." He looks away. "Because you don't want to. You wish you didn't. You think it's weird, something wrong with you, that you got a thing for me." He stops for a second, jaw working. "I don't need that," he adds, more quietly. "I don't want it like that."

GQ stares at him, and what feels like the whole entire world moves around him, all the angles and shadows changing, everything cast in a bright new light. Because that isn't it, that's not it at _all_ , but suddenly he gets how it looked that way.

"Man," he says after a second, when his throat's working again, "you are so wrong, you don't even know," and there's still half an argument to hash out, but he's suddenly desperate to prove it. Go big or go home: he's still got a hand around the nape of Croc's neck, and when it comes down to it, it's the easiest thing in the world to brush his mouth against Croc's forehead, brow; the ridged scaly line down his nose; one of those wide bumpy cheeks. " _So_ wrong," he murmurs again, this time against the corner of Croc's mouth, and Croc sort of doesn't have lips but if GQ were going to let a little thing like that stop him, he'd deserve every word Croc just said to him.

He licks his way in, slides his tongue carefully along the creased little corrugation where scales transition to the softer skin inside Croc's mouth; and the teeth, goddamn, just feeling the prickle of the points against his lip makes his heart race.

Croc doesn't move, under him—and then does, but not to shove him off, just easing carefully away. "GQ," he says, and his voice is always deep but now it's a fucking mineshaft.

"You _are_ hot," GQ blurts. "I dig you so hard it's— _that's_ the thing that freaks me out about this, not you."

Croc stares at him and then blinks once, quick flicker of those sideways eyelids, which coming from him is an invitation to elaborate if GQ ever saw one.

"I'm—" GQ stops and swallows. "I—look, there's stuff that matters to me. You know that."

"Yeah," Croc says.

"Stuff I've built my life around," GQ adds. "Stuff that keeps me going. It's how I got this job, Flag's unit and everything—I pick shit I care about and the rest doesn't touch me. Back in Midway, setting off that bomb? There were a lot of guys who could've done that, who would've done it to save the city, and I'm not saying there weren't. But it wasn't as hard for me as it would've been for them, because the shit I cared about then was, like, ARGUS. Getting my goddamn job done. Keeping Flag alive. You know? And that was all in favor of getting that detonator primed, and there was nothing on the other side. There was nothing I needed to not blow up for."

Croc's watching him now, silent—but somewhere in there his hand closed around GQ's arm, and he doesn't look real inclined to let go.

"Yeah," GQ says, agreeing with everything Croc isn't saying. "Yeah, exactly. You saw that other GQ. I knew what happened before he even said it, because I'm—because you—" He stops again and shakes his head, helpless. "Because you and me, it's—I'm all in. Everything else I thought I cared about before, everything I've been treating like it made me _me_ , and it turns out I'd torch it all over you if I had to." He squeezes his eyes shut and leans in again, just far enough to press their foreheads together. "Jesus, I can't even believe I said that. _That's_ the scary shit, man. Not your retractable lizard dick. I am all over your retractable lizard dick, I swear," he adds, hoarse.

Croc's quiet for a moment, and GQ can't convince himself to open his eyes, because he's done enough terrifying stuff today, thanks.

And then suddenly Croc's free hand is closing around his thigh, and he's—up, off the floor, being settled easily against Croc like he weighs nothing. "Well, good," Croc says smugly, and then he's got GQ's chin in his grip and GQ lets his face be tipped up so Croc can kiss him again.

 

 


End file.
